The Fiesta Job
by Twist
Summary: Vimes and Vetinari go undercover to thwart an explosive assassination attempt. What are their motivations? Could it be patriotism? Or something else? Are rhetorical questions an effective strategy for attracting readers? FEATURES: mustachioed Vimes, etc.


Author's Note: This was a fic written as a birthday gift for the lovely and wonderful VimesLady, who basically introduced me to Discworld fandom (and just fandoms in general) when I was but a wee child (or a wee, misunderstood pre-teen) flailing in the Brave New Worlds of sci-fi/fantasy and writing all at once. It's a return to Ye Olde Out-Of-Character Vetinari, so be warned, ye Characterization Nazis (am I allowed to say that? Is that legal on ff.n still?).

And a very happy birthday to VimesLady – thanks for everything. :) Anytime you want a fanfiction, you just drop me a line.

Disclaimer: Characters obvi are not mine; don't sue lewlz.

--=--

Some things are less tolerable than others. For example, let's consider the phenomenon of the blister. A blister on the inside of one's finger is annoying, oh yes, but it isn't as bad as, say, a blister on the back of one's heel caused by ill-fitting boots that make you walk like you have either a) lost complete motor control of your ankles or b) contracted a nasty case of gangrene. So while both events are similar in that they are blisters, one is vastly preferred to the other.

And then there are some things that are so, so intolerable that it doesn't matter how rare they are, the mere thought of them makes your skin crawl and awakens within you a primal urge to Avoid at All Costs, even if that cost might be losing a limb, which in the face of such a thing is a minor inconvenience.

Once every year, Havelock Vetinari endured such a thing. Other people rather cheerfully called it a 'birthday'.

And every year, in blatant disregard to his protests, Lady Sybil arranged a small get-together. It was never specifically for him, and no one ever brought presents or cake or anything ridiculous like that, but the guest list was very limited, and everyone _knew_ why they were there, even if they were very careful not to say so. And every year he was too polite to dodge it. But this year, well, this year was going to be different. Of course, he said that every year, but then the unfamiliar sense of crushing guilt would overcome him. Besides, there was usually a small container of buttercream frosting in it for him.

But this year there was a legitimate _excuse_.

Vetinari leaned back in his chair, watching Commander Vimes carefully as the man lit up a cigar. "So this requires you to go under cover? Why you?"

Vimes blew a contemplative smoke ring. "Well, sir, these bas- uh, gentlemen have been planning this for months, and we've got good evidence from the Particulars but we'd like to catch them outright. We put someone on the inside months ago, and he picked up some valuable information about what they're calling Phase I. Of course, the idiot let on that he was a little _too_ official, and they're too suspicious of him now for him to safely execute a sabotage by himself."

"And the plan is to sabotage a party . . .?" Vetinari asked, glancing over the police report again.

"Not the party itself. The party's being hosted in an old house off Broad Way, where the headquarters are. Their plan hinges on some thaumic thingummy working properly – should create a distraction big enough, they figure, to tie the Watch up long enough for them to infiltrate the bank and go after von Lipwig." Vimes caught Vetinari's expression which, while fairly unreadable compared to other people, was more blatant than Vetinari's usual. "I never said it was a good plan, sir, but we like to nip these things in the bud all the same."

Vetinari nodded. "So you want to go in there personally –"

"With another officer, preferably, sir."

"Fine, with another officer. And you're going to chat people up enough to find out where their thaumic wiring is being kept, disarm it, and catch them out at the Bank when the thaumic diversion fails?"

"Yessir."

Vetinari nodded. "And what if you don't find out where the wiring for the diversion is?"

Vimes paused. "We do have enough evidence to get them on minor charges at the moment sir. We could probably get some of them to spill more under interrogation."

"Yes, the famous interrogation techniques." Vetinari frowned. "And why, Commander, are you personally required for this excursion? Because if I recall you're not the most social in party-type situations."

"That's why I was hoping to bring another officer along," Vimes conceded, albeit grudgingly. "I'm more the listening type."

"You're more the shouting type, in my experience," Vetinari said, without a trace of sarcasm. Vimes glowered. "Very well, Commander, you may do whatever you see necessary to put a stop to this frankly poorly thought-out assassination attempt. Which officer were you intending to use?"

"Angua, sir," Vimes said, tapping the ash off the end of his cigar into the ashtray that now had a home on the Patrician's desk. Some concessions had to be made, after all. "Charming, smart, got a good nose in a pinch."

Vetinari looked thoughtful. "Have you considered that she might be a little too recognizable, Commander?"

Vimes shrugged. "Well she's the smartest officer I have other than Carrot, and if you're talking recognizable then he's definitely out of the question. And I'm not taking a constable on this – I need someone with experience."

"And what about von Humpeding?" Vimes glowered. Vetinari let it go. "Well, it seems to me you're in quite the conundrum, Commander." He got up from his chair and went over to the window, looking out over the city. The office was silent for a minute and then, "In such a case, Commander, I think you might consider using another agent, perhaps not a member of the Watch."

Vimes chuckled. "If you're suggesting one of your little clerks, Vetinari, I don't think I'm comfortable with that."

"Hm." The Patrician turned and fixed Vimes with a thin smile. "In that case, Commander, I think I would have to insist that _I_ personally go with you."

Vimes's cigar dropped to the floor as his mouth fell open. He sputtered for a minute before regaining enough control of his tongue to blurt out "What about recognizable?" You're on the godsdamn dollar bill, Vetinari!"

"Oh, I think you'd be surprised, Commander." The man turned and leaned against the sill. "You know, in your line of work, that people often don't see what they don't expect."

"The old zebra in the livery trick," Vimes grumbled, retrieving his cigar and grinding it out in the ashtray.

"Precisely, although I'm still perplexed at how they managed to get the zebra to Hobson's in the first place," Vetinari sighed. "Besides, I've been in that house once or twice before, and have access to the plans for it."

"Of course you do," Vimes said, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. "But sir, may I point out once again that these people are discontents that ultimately plan to overthrow you?"

Vetinari sat back down and picked the report up off his desk. "Well then I should say it's extremely important that no one finds out that it's actually me." He leaned back. "I assume you have invitations?"

"Er, well –"

The Patrician waved a hand. "It's not a concern, Commander."

Vimes looked up, defeated but determined not to go down without getting one more stab in. "And this sudden desire to get out of your office wouldn't have anything to do with that little soiree Sybil's putting on tonight, would it?"

Vetinari smiled glassily. "Oh I wouldn't know about that."

Vimes picked his helmet up off the desk and made to leave. "You're as bad as I am, sir. Fine," he sighed. "Their little get-together starts at eight – no dinner, just godsawful sherry and the little nibble things."

"Capital!" Vetinari thought for a moment. "I should think the best time to get in would be around half past – most people will be arriving then, which would make it easier to avoid unnecessary attention."

"Right," Vimes muttered, halfway to the door. Over the past four months he and Vetinari had been playing an unspoken game – testing whether Vimes could actually leave the Office before Vetinari had a chance to say his little tagline. So far Vimes had only managed it twice. He was hopeful about his chances today – so far, so good.

"Oh, and Commander, one more thing." Vimes winced and turned around. "Don't let me detain you," the man smirked.

Vimes scowled and stalked out.

--=--

Commander Vimes took a cab to the party, and he rode the whole way with an increasingly large lump of dread roiling in his stomach. He was sure about his disguise – the false moustache always seemed to do the trick(1) and the nondescript brown suit with the absolutely awful mustard-colored shirt would be so commonplace that no one would look twice.

The coach finally rolled to a stop and Vimes paid the cabbie, stepping out into the street in front of the party. The house was typical for this part of the city – a townhouse, but a good-sized number, with just enough finery on the front to let you know the owners had money but not quite enough to be ostentatious. Vimes straightened his tie and looked around.

It had occurred to him that he might not be able to find Vetinari, so he just settled on waiting. Soon enough someone approached from apparently out of a shadow. As he drew closer, it was a wonder he'd managed it.

The suit was brown, very dark. And pinstriped. _Blue _pinstripes. Ye gods. Was that a brown paisley tie? Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose.

"The trainers were a nice touch, no one will ever suspect you," he grumbled. "Where'd the glasses come from?"

"Oh, around," Vetinari shrugged.

"So did you dye your hair gray or did you wash the dye out? I'm having trouble keeping up with the current theories these days."

Vetinari grinned. "It's all part of the mystery. Nice moustache, by the way. Here." He pulled two invitations from inside his jacket. "You're Davy Morrissey for the night and I'll be John McDonald."

Vimes grunted, taking his invitation. "Background story?"

"We've got business interests in the Plains, just like everyone else here," Vetinari said smoothly. "And we think that the Morporkian government is nothing but a festering hive of criminals, vagrants and liars." He sounded more cheerful about this than he really should have. "Which is more or less true, but they don't need to know that."

"Right, so go in and mingle and find out what you can," Vimes muttered as the two made their way in through the front door. "You can mingle, can't you?"

"Like a champion."

"Humph." Vimes showed his invitation to the man at the door, who waved him through, followed closely by Vetinari. "Does it strike you as ironic that you're avoiding one party by going to another?"

Vetinari smirked. "It might have occurred to me. How long do you need?"

"What?" Vimes gave the man a look and then shrugged. "We have three hours, so a two and a half hours at the outside, yeah?"

"Capital," Vetinari said, running his hands through his hair and making it more disheveled, if that were possible. Vimes noted a suspicious lack of dye evidence. "So now we mingle."

--=--

(1) Although that had been his only concession in the hair department – Igor's offer of a hairpiece had not, altogether, been entirely comforting.

--=--

Vimes was not a party person, even when he was technically required to be a party person because it was part of the job. Even in the best of circumstances he disliked the sort of small talk you got at these things, and had a hard time following the talk that was not quite as small.

And now he was at a party where he didn't know a single person with one very notable exception, still hated the small talk, and was having a harder time than usual following the significant talk because, by and large, he had very little idea what people were really talking about.

It was most disconcerting.

"So Mr. Morrissey," a charming young woman – Evelyn, Vimes remembered her name was – started when the conversation lulled, "you say you have business interests in the Plains – would it be terribly forward of me to ask what kind?"

He smiled, trying to make it look natural and aware that he was very close to failing, and shrugged. "Oh, you know, a bit of this and a bit of that. Never was much of a man for one thing, I've always found it best to diversify." It was about as vague as he could be, so he added "But I do deal a lot in dairy."

"Aha, cheese and the like?" Evelyn's companion, Wrenwurt, cut in. "I haff alvays loffed a good cheese."

Vimes paused before going on. "Yes, er, I do a bit with cheeses, yeah. And you two, you mentioned something about cabbage?" In fact, they'd done no such thing, but Vimes recognized the pair from another party – Merchant's Guild, he was pretty sure – and they'd been very interested in the cabbage industry. Plus, they lived out in a farming estate on the Plains, and in any case cabbage was a good bet there.

"Oh, yes," Evelyn said smoothly, smiling brightly. "Yes, we sell a majority of our home-grown Kraut cabbages to the city. Booming industry these days, we've found."

"Ha," Vimes said, trying to convey small amount of sarcasm and watching their eyes. "Some say that, yeah."

Evelyn laughed lightly, though the spark of curiosity had lit up behind her eyes. "You don't sound so convinced yourself, Mr. Morrissey. You are unhappy with the current economic situation? Perhaps the cheese industry is struggling?"

Vimes shrugged, noncommittal. "Well, this is neither the time nor place for that kind of talk, is it?" He smiled tightly.

"Oh, I vould not say so," Wrenwurt said, the ghost of a smirk creeping onto his face. "Von might say zis it is the _ideal_ place for such talk. Please, sir, speak freely your mind. I am interested, as ve too beleeff zat current times, zey are not as good as zer papers zey are saying."

Vimes chuckled. "Well, you know how it is, with the bank getting back on its feet and all, makes it a bit hard to be competitive when just _anyone_ can get started competing with you, you know?"

Evelyn put one hand to her breast and clutched at Wrenwurt with the other. "Oh, dear, it's like he knows exactly what we've been talking about in our den!" she laughed. "Oh, Mr. Morrissey, that is just too much. Wrenwurt and I feel the same way, it's so funny you should say that!"

_Hilarious_, thought Vimes, as Wrenwurt continued. "Zer Mr. von Lipwig, he is my countryman but he is not any friend to our trade," he said gravely. "Und he is criminal, have you not heard? He vas hanged and reinvented by zer Patrician!"

"I might have heard something about that, a bit," Vimes said delicately. "He's a bit . . . shiny for my tastes." And that, at least, wasn't a lie. Vimes had a deep ingrained dislike for the man, if only because you could see him two streets away on a sunny day and that damn suit seemed to play hell with traffic patterns.

Evelyn smiled, though this time it wasn't very nicely. There was a predatory edge to it, but only for a moment. "Well, we'll just see how long the boy in the golden suit lasts, won't we? Even Vetinari won't be able to keep him safe forever."

And now was the time to proceed delicately. Vimes sipped his water(1) and shrugged. "Oh, I don't know, Vetinari's more clever than he lets on." Which, it occurred to Vimes, was utterly true and a fairly terrifying thought.

Wrenwurt shook his head. "Zere are thing in zis vorld, are zere not, zat even zer great Havelock Vetinari cannot put a stop to?"

"I've heard he's said you can't put brakes on a volcano," Vimes muttered, which was true. The fact that Vetinari had said that to his wife at one point wasn't really worth mentioning.

"Hmm, yes," Wrenwurt said slowly. "How . . . apt. Oh, but I do not mean to monopolize zer time ve haff here by talking of trade," he said quickly, swerving back to small talk as if the exchange had never happened. "Apologies, Mr. Morrissey, but Evelyn und myself, ve must go talk to our friends over zere. If you'll excuse us . . .?"

"Oh but Wrenwurt, all you talk about with them is cabbage fertilization," Evelyn grinned. "I think Lady Beatrice has been trying to catch my eye for some time now. I should go speak to her while you men discuss the farming."

"Very vell," replied Wrenwurt, smiling broadly. "I shall fetch you before we retire to zer smoking room tonight, yes?" Vimes did not raise his eyebrows, but he did take a sip of his drink and look around the room, as if he were looking for someone. "Yes, most excellent." Vimes and Wrenwurt exchanged a strong handshake as Evelyn waved and strode off. "It vas most good to meet you, Mr. Morrissey. Perhaps ve can do dealings in zer future, yes?"

Vimes smiled thinly. "I'd say it's quite likely, sir. Good evening to you and yours." He watched as Wrenwurt made his way over to another cluster of people. Then he sidled over to the bar and pulled out his pocket watch – time was almost up, and he didn't have much to show for it. He'd managed to gather that most people who were displeased with the current economic situation were retiring to the smoking room afterwards, so he assumed that would be a good place to round up the organizers, but he'd come up frustratingly empty-handed on the whereabouts of the thaumic wiring. And his moustache was starting to itch.

Which meant it was time to hunt Vetinari down and see what he'd managed to find out.

Out of habit, Vimes checked the corners and dark places for the man first, but he didn't see Vetinari in any of them. Puzzled, he strolled around the room, looking as casual as possible. He paused by a large group, all apparently focused on a central figure . . .

Who on close inspection was in a brown suit and was horribly, horribly familiar. And apparently very drunk. And, as Vimes drew closer and caught what the man was saying and more importantly _how_ he was saying it, apparently he was from somewhere out on the Chalk, having managed to fake one of the strongest Chalk accents Vimes had ever heard.

"So, 'e's oot chasin' down this wee nekkid lass," Vetinari was saying, as parts of Vimes's brain exploded from the sheer incongruity of the whole situation and the small crowd clustered around the man leaned in in anticipation, "oot en the Chalk, ye ken, an' 'oo does 'e run into but the Watch! An' the officer asks 'im to explain the nekkidness of the girl, obviously, an' 'e goes an' says 'e's dazed and confused an' _that_'s when _'e_ said 'it's all yer fault, ye timorous beastie' an' then she slapped 'im right in the face." The got a huge peal of laughter from the crowd, who obviously thought this was a terrific story. Vimes scowled and took a swig of water.

"So they're fixin' to fight righ' there in front of all these watchmen and this coach, 'er wearin' nothin' but 'er bloomers, an' then someone inside the coach calls the two of 'em in and turns out it's _the Queen of Lancre!_ An' she's righ' furious, she 'ates fightin'. Well you can bet they're both so shocked they 'ardly know what t'say bu' Tilda, she's rememberin' the Queen's fond of sayin' 'I'm not amused' –"

"It's her trademark, almost!" the man in front of Vimes whispered to the woman next to him excitedly.

"'an she says 'I bet you're really not amused, aren't you, miss?'" The crowd roared. Vimes smirked himself – he'd had dreams about using the word 'detain' on Vetinari sometime. It would be glorious, when that day came. "An' so she throws 'em both in prison fer the nigh', an' makes 'em sort out their issue! An' she did give Tilda a dress; that she certainly did do." The crowd was still laughing, some were wiping tears away. Vimes rolled his eyes. Vetinari spotted him and smirked.

"An' noo, ladies an' gents, I must go talk about some dreadfully dull things," he said, looking every inch as sorry as he sounded to be leaving. "Business calls, ye ken, I'm sure." He paused as he pushed through the crowd to give a young lady a kiss on the hand. She tittered and blushed. Vimes was scowling even more deeply, if that were possible, by the time Vetinari had managed to push through the crowd. The two of them headed for the door.

"That's quite the accent," Vimes grumbled.

"I'm quite fond," Vetinari said, still using the damnable thing. "I'm considerin' usin' it through the week."

"No you're not." Vimes paused. "Have you been drinking?"

"You'd think so, wouldn' you?"

They made their way out the doors and into a small alcove. The hall was completely deserted and the babble from the party was enough to drown out the sound of their conversation. "So what did you get?" Vetinari asked idly, dumping his drink casually into a vase.

"A lot of discontent individuals are meeting in the smoking room after the party, presumably after the detonation. They're going to be each other's alibis." Vimes shrugged. "It'll be a good place to round up suspects, but nothing about the thaumic wiring." He noticed Vetinari's smug look. "You found something out, didn't you? Godsdammit Vetinari, why didn't you just come out and say it?"

Vetinari shrugged. "You'd be amazed what people will talk to a stupid, drunk printer from out on the Chalk about." He brightened. "Apparently, the latest in thaumic technology." And with that he dropped the glass onto the floor, where it shattered loudly. No one seemed to notice. "Keep up."

They wove through the house, Vetinari leading and Vimes keeping up. Finally, Vetinari ducked carefully into a dark room and motioned for Vimes to follow. The door shut behind them with a quiet snap. They stood there, waiting to adjust to the darkness.

"I never realized you could be so chatty," Vimes said idly.

"I said I could mingle like a champion," Vetinari sighed. "I'd like to think that all those mandatory parties they made us go to at the Guild weren't for nothing."

"Do mandatory parties strike you as a little strange?"

"I tried not to think about it too much."

"You had a lot of friends?"

"That's personal," Vetinari warned.

"So you didn't know anyone named Tilda that met the Queen of Lancre?"

Vetinari chuckled. "No but if you'd think about it, Vimes, I have spoken to the Queen of Lancre herself."

"Oh yeah, you would do." A pause. "She told you that story then?"

"Nah, she's a bit of a wet blanket actually. I made it up. Right, the wiring is all over there in that big box." Vimes could make out a box-like shape in the murky gloom. It was a good ten feet off the floor.

"You have a ladder or something?" he asked as the made their way over to it. He looked around. While it was dark, he could see well enough to know the room was definitively ladder-less. There was a long pause. "Okay, well, technically I outrank you," Vimes said. "You know, in society."

"Do you?" Vetinari asked. Vimes had trouble determining if there was iciness or amusement in his tone.

"Well, well yeah," Vimes said uneasily. "I'm a Duke and the Commander of the Watch and a knight and you're . . . well, the Patrician, obviously, but that's kind of a generic lord title isn't it?" He paused. "And don't I have some hereditary title too?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Vetinari said lightly, which was total bull and Vimes knew it. "But it is apparent that you do outrank me, Commander. So, would you mind telling me how you plan to disarm the system?"

"Er."

"I'm told that if you do it wrong you'll be killed instantly," Vetinari said cheerfully.

"Well do _you_ know how?" asked Vimes accusingly.

"Yes, actually."

"Of course you do. I'm assuming you're planning to stand on my shoulders?" No sooner had he stood to face the wall than Vetinari had vaulted up, like it was something he did on a daily basis. Which maybe he did, gods knew what the man got up to. He grunted. "Gods, Vetinari, you could have given me some warning. You're not half heavy, you know that?"

"Look at it this way," Vetinari said lightly, "I could be Lord Rust. And I bet you're glad for the trainers now, eh?"

"Don't tell me you foresaw this?" There was a click from above and a soft blue light flooded the room. "What in the hells is that?" He looked up to see his boss, elbow-deep in a box full of potentially fatal wiring, the light-emitting cylinder in his mouth.

"Magic," Vetinari said around the light. "You wouldn't like it."

"I'm not sure I like it now. Could you hurry up?"

"Can't rush these things," the man said, pulling out a thin green wire that was pulsing with a soft yellow glow. "Nope," he muttered. "Hold still, Vimes."

"I'm not as young as I once was," he muttered. "Can't stand here all night."

"And I'm not a thaumatician. Blue wire, no, that's not it . . ."

A thought occurred to Vimes. "So if you snip the wrong wire, what happens then?"

"What? Oh. Well," Vetinari pulled a length of naked wire from the box, "either nothing will happen but the explosion will carry on anyway, since this little rig is set up to allow for some errors, or I'll die painfully and you'll probably be permanently maimed."

Vimes blinked. "Why won't I die?"

"I wore trainers."

Vimes rolled his eyes. "How merciful. What are you looking for exactly?"

"A fat orange wire but it's a bit dodgy." There was a spark. The muscles in Vimes's back knotted instantly and Vetinari drew his hand out quickly, shaking it. "If this becomes widespread we're going to have to have some sort of safety code or something, I'll tell you that. Ha!" He reached back in and pulled forth a thick wire coated in orange paint. "This looks like it could be the one."

"You're sure about that?" Vimes shifted, though slowly and cautiously.

"Absolutely not." The Patrician reached back into a pocket and pulled out a dagger. "But here goes."

Vimes closed his eyes, expression fixed in a grimace of anticipated pain. There was a snap, a brief whiff of octarine, a spark that was bright enough to make the back of his eyelids glow red, and then nothing. He cracked his eyelids. "Was that it?"

"Dunno." The man hopped down. "I think so. And we're not dead, which is a plus." The light snapped off, plunging the room back into darkness. "How long do we have before the explosion?"

"Er," Vimes waited until they'd slipped out into the empty hallway and then pulled his watch out. "Thirty minutes."

"Because I did have a thought in there," the Patrician went on. "The people that are invading the bank – will they be watching for an explosion?"

Vimes shook his head. "No way they could see it – it was set to go off down in the Shades. They would have heard it though."

Vetinari nodded slowly. "Right. So they'll be listening for an explosion, yes?"

"Yeah."

"And what will they do when no explosion happens?" They'd reached the end of the hall. Vetinari pushed the window up and eased out onto the roof of a shed. Vimes, who had long since stopped being surprised, considered the question.

"I suppose they won't go into the bank," he replied slowly, jumping down to the street below. "Buggery, I didn't that about that part."

"No, I didn't think you had." Vetinari looked quite smug by his standards as the two of them started walking away from the house. "Which is why I took it upon myself to think of something."

Vimes's face fell. "You're going to make an explosion, aren't you?"

Vetinari grinned widely, which was an altogether disconcerting expression for the man to take on. "We're going to make an explosion."

--=--

(1) He'd had the bartender put a lime in it for the look of the thing – punch would be too suspicious, he'd decided.

--=--

Half an hour later, a massive explosion rocked the bank district of the city. Masked, cloaked and hooded, a dozen individuals rushed the front door of the bank, hands reaching into their cloaks for weapons. Once inside, however, they were stopped short by a force of roughly twenty police officers, with Captain Carrot at their head.

"My, this doesn't look very legal, does it? The bank is _closed_, gentlemen," he said kindly, though there was a glint of steel in his eyes.

And one of the masked men muttered "Bugger."

Half the city away, Vimes and Vetinari were on the roof of the Palace, holding very still so that they did not inadvertently step over the edge of the roof, being temporarily blinded by so much fireworks smoke.

"That was impressive," Vimes hacked, pulling his cigar case from his suit pocket. "You keep all that laying around?"

"Need a light?" Vetinari offered forth a rocket, the lit fuse sparking wildly. Vimes was fairly certain his eyes bugged out of his head as he flew backwards away from the thing. Vetinari smirked. "It's not going to go off right _now_," he chided, before casually tossing the thing aside. There was a _whump_ and the rocket shot skyward, eventually exploding in a shower of gold and blue sparks.

"Out of curiosity Vetinari, do you plan these things out or do you make them up as you go along?" Vimes grumbled, lighting his cigar with a perfectly innocent match.

"I like to this it's a healthy mixture of both," Vetinari answered, completely honestly. Vimes watched him suspiciously. Behind them, the door to the roof scraping open broke the silence. The men turned to see Sybil emerging from the stairwell, shaking her head but overall looking amused. There was a container of some sort in her left hand.

"I wondered how you boys were doing," she said, her tone bordering on exasperated, "and I was just starting to worry when the next thing I know there's fireworks going off over the Palace. It seemed fairly obvious at that point that you were both fine."

"Hello dear," Vimes said as Sybil stood next to him. "Everything went according to plan, I'm sure."

"Yes, there was quite the fuss at the bank when we were coming down here. It looks like Captain Carrot had it all under control. Well, except for the press and the public – that nice Mr. von Lipwig was taking care of that."

"Was he wearing the suit?" Vimes snapped.

"Is that buttercream?" Vetinari asked hopefully.

"Yes and yes," Sybil said, handing the container over to the Patrician. "You can hardly blame him Sam, it's practically his uniform and Havelock I brought you a spoon." The last bit was added with a slight hint of accusation as the Patrician dove right into the frosting without cutlery but with every sign of unadulterated joy, or at least what passed for it where Vetinari was concerned.

"Spoils the taste," Vetinari said happily, coming up with a fingerfull of the stuff.

Sybil shook her head. "Animal. Anyway, Ronnie and Faustus are on their way – I lost them somewhere around the fifth floor."

"They can stay lost," Vimes grumbled.

"Too right, Downey always tries to steal my frosting," Vetinari agreed. Sybil rolled her eyes.

"Well I hope you enjoyed your day, anyway, Havelock." Her face softened into a smile. "It does you good to get out of your office every once and a while, I think. Although perhaps next time you shouldn't go on a spying mission where volatile thaumic wiring is involved."

"And it should be with someone else," Vimes added. "I can't take that accent again. Among other things." His back twinged sullenly.

"Which accent?" Downey cut in, panting heavily as he arrived on the roof. "Tell me I didn't miss the Fourecks one again. Oh, hey, nice moustache Commander."

"Nah, Chalk," Vetinari mumbled around the frosting. By this point most of the container was empty.

"Oh, I've heard that one before." Downey raised a hand dismissively. "Now share your frosting, you bastard, I ran up all those steps for it."

"Did not," Vetinari stated. "And it's mine. So no." Vimes noted with bemusement that that little dialogue wouldn't have sounded out of place coming out of his five year-old son's mouth.

"Oh come _on_," Downey groaned. "You can't eat that whole thing by yourself! You'll . . . I dunno, you'll get worms or something."

"I do not care." And that seemed to settle the matter, although Downey tried to pout convincingly for a few seconds before giving up. Sybil sighed.

"Well, I hope you enjoyed your . . . day, Havelock," she said, cautiously avoiding tacking a crucial 'b' word onto that phrase.

"It wasn't bad," he reflected.

"We missed you at the party, of course."

"No you didn't, Sybil, don't lie," the Patrician snickered. "You all probably had a brilliant time. Did Selachii and Venturii show up?"

"Oh yeah, both," Downey answered eagerly. "And Selachii got that dummy invitation about how you had to show up drunk, so he was toasted by the time he got there."

Vetinari grinned. "Was it any good?"

"He took off his clothes and started dancing on the piano," Downey relayed eagerly. "You should have seen his underwear, it looked like an elephant and –"

"And that was when we left," Sybil said severely, stopping Downey's play-by-play recounting of the – ahem – highlights of the evening.

"I think I should go to the Yard," Vimes mumbled, his brain having shut down in self-defense as soon as Lord Selachii's underwear started being the topic of discussion. "And help, er, sort out the mess."

"Of course, dear." Sybil pecked him on the cheek before he fled down the stairs, shouldering past Lord Rust in the doorway.

"Did I miss the frosting?" the man panted.

"Yeah, Havelock wouldn't share," Downey sighed. "Bastard."

Vetinari gave him a severe look. "I think I'm allowed to do whatever I want with frosting that someone gives to me on . . . today."

"How old are you again?" Rust asked, totally failing to beat around the bush. "I see you washed the dye out, by the way. And, er, was that Commander Vimes with a moustache just then or am I starting to see things?"

Vetinari scowled. "It was part of his disguise but more importantly, Ron, how do you know I didn't dye it this color?"

"Oh, come on, Vetinari, you're not fooling anyone," Downey snickered. "Besides, I've often thought gray hair makes people look more distinguished."

"Because you went gray when you were twenty seven," Rust coughed, still panting.

Downey sniffed. "Just so. Anyway, what are we all doing standing about on the roof? You have more fireworks?"

"Nope," Vetinari said. "Used everything for the explosion."

"So why are we up here again?"

"It's a nice night," Sybil said mildly, looking skyward. The four stars that were visible in Ankh-Morpork on a clear night shimmered feebly. "You can see the stars."

"Yeah, how about that," Downey said dismissively. "Right, it's bloody freezing up here."

"No it's not, I'm dying over here," Lord Rust wheezed, his face still red from the effort.

"I have liquor," said Vetinari.

"And we're off." Without waiting to see if anyone followed, Downey turned back for the door and headed down the stairs, Vetinari and Sybil tagging along behind. Rust watched them with a certain measure of desperation.

"Oh, come _on_, I just ran up all those!"

"It's not that hard, Rust, honestly. Down is easier," Vetinari called from the door, where he was watching Rust with a certain measure of amusement.

"Well I suppose if you can manage it at your age," grumbled the larger man as he made his way back to the door.

"_Falling_ down the stairs is considerably easier than walking," Vetinari warned. "And I would hate to see you overexert yourself."

Rust winked as he pulled the door shut against the smoke and the cold and the sad remains of the buttercream container, bouncing across the roof as the breeze caught it. "Kidding, mate, you know mine's next month."

"Oh, do I know," Vetinari smirked. "Believe you me."

"I'm not particularly sure I like the sound of that."

"You shouldn't."

Rust sighed. "I suppose it's deserved."

Vetinari clapped him on the back. "Very much so, as far as I'm concerned. But don't worry about your pending destruction at my hands," he added. "Let's just go get Downey wasted."

"Will this involve me having to find out what kind of undershorts he wears?"

"Gods I hope not."

--=--

THE END

Every time you read a fic but don't review it, a lolrus loses his bukkit. You just remember that.


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